


A Great Reckoning in a Little Room

by valderys



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier is a respectable playwright, insofar as any playwright is considered respectable in a London populated with seditionists, sodomites and Popish spies.  But his precarious life is thrown into turmoil when his disreputable old friend Erik Lehnsherr returns from foreign parts with a summons to appear before the Privy Council.  What does it really mean?  Who can Charles trust?  And, more worryingly, what might he be called upon to do...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Great Reckoning in a Little Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/gifts).



> Written for Not Prime Time, for storiesfortravellers, who asked me for any Historical AU on the somewhat fluffy side. I hope you like my version of an AU, owing as it does a great deal to actual history and to the real lives of William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe, as much as it does to X-Men: First Class. I really enjoyed researching this, so thank you.

The knocking was quiet but no less furious or demanding for that. Charles supposed that it was fortunate that he was still awake, wrestling with a scene that would not let the protagonist rest, never mind it's poor author. Because it meant he got to the door first, before the house was roused, for Mistress Bull was a stickler for prompt hours and gentleman-like conduct, for all she received it in less measure than she would wish. Yet his candle was guttering, he would be forced to seek his bed soon anyway, so it would not do to blame the errant night-time visitor with his character Petruchio's faults of stubbornness and pride.

Or maybe that should be exactly what he should do. Charles held back a sigh as he unbolted the door only to catch a glimpse of the curled lip and shadowed jaw of the celebrated yet infamous Erik Lehnsherr. One glimpse alone was all he had before he was being hustled back into the tap room and the door crowded shut behind him, Charles' only reference points the faint outline of the man himself and the mixed swirling scents he brought with him, fresh prickling night air, damp wool and that certain something that spoke of Erik to him. Call it a rough kind of spiciness perhaps, as though the man's many continental travels had leant him something of the exotic, along with his four spoken languages (at least) and a certain taste for French wines.

"God's blood, but it's good to see you," Erik whispered then, his voice still harsh with the vowels of another country, and Charles took in a sharp involuntary breath. The affection in it already threatening to break down barriers he'd long since cherished as being more than wise. It had been a very long year.

"You can barely see me at all," he ventured, pleased his voice had no tremor, no sign of the turmoil his midnight apparition had engendered in his breast. "It's as black as a witch's tit out there, and you hop-skipping about in it as if I'd take you for a nightingale."

The candle flared then, letting Charles see Erik's wolfish smile, so beloved and reminiscent of earlier days, of discussions of philosophy and politics, camaraderie over glasses of sack, shafts of wit darting back and forth, like dancing rapiers on a frosty morning. It wasn't so many years ago that Charles had come to London from his family's home at Stratford but it felt like more, and there he'd been, a bumpkin from the country with his scribbles and his pretensions, trying to ape the work of sophisticated, university men like Thomas Kyd, and John Lyly and... Erik Lehnsherr.

"I'd take you for anything you care to offer, Charles, as always," said Erik, leering, his long fingers curving around the candle, as though to coax out the last of its light, and Charles was glad the gloom would hide his blush.

"How is Mistress Frost?" he asked in return, as quick as a flash, and saw Erik frown.

So speedily were their old arguments brought to bear.

"She is well, although we were separated on the road, through both a strange prudence and dire necessity."

Only Erik could offer such a juxtaposition and mean every syllable, for he had ever been such a study in contrasts. Oh, Charles had _missed_ him.

"But that means you have no-one to protect yourself, if the need arises," he said, inanely stating the obvious, even as his heart was beating faster. Charles hated that Erik was always so careless of his safety in these uncertain times, even if his powers were unusually useful in a fight.

"Not true, for I flew to your side as soon as I could, did I not?" Erik's eyes gleamed like thrush's eggs in the last flicker of light before darkness fell. "I know you won't let me down."

Charles took a ragged breath. This was the other thing he hated about Erik. The impossible situations that Erik managed to drag him into without even trying.

***

Charles wasn't political. He had no burning desire to save the world. Or protect it from the Spanish, which Erik insisted was pretty much the same thing. He didn't, lord forgive him, have any great religious conviction either, although he kept that more to himself, having no great desire to be labeled a dangerous subversive or even Popish. He merely wanted to turn his knack for pretty phrases into theatrical triumphs full of thundering speeches that made the groundlings swoon. Was that too much to ask of an ambitious world? But that was before he'd met one Erik Lehnsherr, already feted by literary society before he even left Cambridge, demonized and lauded by turns, his talent as a dramatist undeniable, his wit cutting but his rebellious desire to constantly test any and all boundaries by far the sharpest thing about him. Was it any wonder that Charles fell hopelessly, despairingly in love?

***

"Pease pottage with bread and dripping is all you'll have to break your fast," scolded Mistress Bull the next morning, "For I'm sure I didn't know I had an extra guest beneath my roof. And that guest will like what he's given, will he not, Master Lehnsherr? Or I'll know the reason why."

"Like enough he will," responded Erik with a twinkle, and Mistress Bull tutted and bustled off to raise the kitchen staff. She knew him of old, her house here in Deptford was a regular haunt of a certain kind of fellow. Those on the edges of polite society but not yet fallen between its cracks, often made it their home. Dramatists and critics and politicians of all kinds had yet found solace between these walls in the years since her husband had passed away. Charles had decided she must like the company for all her loud and protested pains.

"So what now?" asked Charles in the relative sanctuary of a misty May morning. Erik's appearance was tidied too, his face washed, his beard trimmed to a fine point and the gleam of dark grey pearl was glinting once more from his ear. Things could never look so bad on such a morning, it gave Charles hope.

"The Privy Council have called upon me to appear before them," said Erik, without preamble, "And so I returned from the arms of the Dutch with scarcely a scratch to be seen, ready to present myself and do their bidding. Flushed from Flushing, you might say."

This time it was Charles who wanted to snort his disbelief. "I highly doubt the appearance of such good behaviour. I might wonder what had happened to my friend Erik in such a case."

"Ah, you know me well. And thereby hangs the tale."

Erik looked serious for once, taking Charles by the elbow and drawing him to a settle, far away from the other patrons of the boarding house. His grip was firm but his nails dug in warningly even as he continued to faintly smile, though the mirth had left his eyes.

"You do know me, Charles, as others do not, and have always proved loyal, even when you might have had cause to better yourself at my expense."

"No, no," Charles murmured, embarrassed at the praise, for Erik had never been one for effusive compliments unless in jest.

"You know it to be true. And you know that I do not put my trust in others lightly."

"Or even at all," Charles said with an attempt at levity, that fell rather flat. Erik was staring into his eyes with such burning sincerity, it felt rather like some kind of gentle flaying, laying out the truth of him to Erik's gimlet gaze. Charles wanted to squirm and protest that he was not everything that Erik believed him to be. He wrote a passable hand, his iambic pentameter was middling fair and his turn for the dramatic had stood his historical tragedies in good stead - but he was not the man Erik thought him. He was no hero. Not like Erik.

"I have enemies that work against me. To thwart them I must make this appearance in front of the Privy Council or be shunned by my employer and all others in my profession as a base traitor, but I do fear that there are those who would prevent me. Who would see my advancements made their own. I must search out the spider who seeks to make of me a fly - and swat them before they ever come so near."

Erik ran his hand down Charles' sleeve, until he could take his hand under the cover of the table. The feel of those strong slim fingers in his own made Charles catch his breath, his nerve endings singing with the proximity, with memories, with his own base desires. He had been a fool if he thought he could ever be free of this man, if he could ever resist his lures.

"You know of me Charles, as no other does, with all my faces uncovered from their masks. Will you yet help me once more?"

Erik was all passion and fire, even now, in a tap room, in travel-stained doublet and hose. His stare would seem angry to one who knew him less well than Charles, but like a hawk, instead it saw more distant things, the fall of princes and the rise of empires. Erik was a bird not destined for any cage. How could Charles ever answer him except with...

"Yes," breathed Charles and watched the sunshine break through the clouds.

***

It was generally agreed upon that Erik Lehnsherr had been recruited as a spy at university. Rumour claimed that it had been Francis Walsingham himself who had persuaded him into the service of her Majesty Elizabeth R. Charles knew that it had not been quite as straightforward as that but Erik loved to add to the legend, all grist to the agent's mill, he used to say, they can never fear you enough. Charles had disagreed, he was concerned that people could fear someone too much, that anyone could become too notorious, too dangerous to be allowed to live. Erik had just laughed, called him a worry-wart and bought another round of drinks. His activities certainly allowed him to spend coin as if it was water and Charles couldn't deny that they both enjoyed the bounty. Those halcyon days had felt as though they would last forever, each evening stretching endlessly into another golden tomorrow and so Charles had tried not to think about it, even when Erik was off in unknown places with Mistress Frost or the agent he only knew by his codename, Azazel. That was another joke, Charles knew, for in his dramatic masterpiece Doctor Faustus, the devilish companion's name had been Azazel until Erik had been forced to change it. Mephistopheles was a fine replacement, but Charles knew who the character really was - he knew that Erik was poking fun at more than the German Pope when he wrote that play. And his belly had stayed cold and empty and twisted with anxiety.

***

With Charles' help now garnered and accepted, Erik was all smiles again, his mercurial nature once more to the fore. He sang as he went about his work, hiring a room of his own from Mistress Bull but invading Charles' own to write sundry letters which he then went out to deliver. While Charles himself felt his head grow heavy with the weight of all his thoughts. Petruchio was too light a character to suit his mood now, his latest comedy all froth and spume with no backbone to it, he wanted something more meaty for his quill to dig into. Instead he found a sonnet taking shape under his pen, his Fair Youth raising his head once more, and Charles knowing sublimation when he saw it.

He stayed restless however, so when there was a commotion downstairs, several voices raised together in a boisterous hum, it made a good excuse to abandon such vexing labours and venture out upon the landing, the half-wall enabling Charles to see down to the tavern floor below. It was all that was in him not to gasp or make other noise that might attract unwelcome attention, for Erik was there certainly, but not alone. He was accompanied by three cronies that Charles did not like the look of, not one jot. Two he recognised, for Robert Poley had been a notorious Catholic agent before his Babington triumph and subsequent unmasking, while Charles had seen Nicholas Skeres hanging around the edges of the same crowd, always scowling but always watchful. The third he did not know and it made him long to discover it, the temptation to reach out, just a little, almost overwhelming. But he was not an agent, his abilities had not been honed in a dangerous battle of wits all across Europe and any of the men below could have defenses or wards that could trigger at his meddling. Charles was not a fighting man, he was a man of peace, a wordsmith - this dangerous life was not for him, and indeed it was possible that he could put Erik in danger if he interfered.

It was a hard thing to put into practice but all he could do was watch.

"Come, Lehnsherr," said the third fellow, an unprepossessing man of swarthy looks and a pinched look of envy about him, "Will you not share a drink with us, your fellow travellers on this path of toil? We've come to share your wait, to lighten the load and make the time pass more pleasantly."

"How kind of you, Frizer," said Erik with a baring of his teeth that only the most naive might call a smile, "That you should go out of your way for me, when I've so recently returned to London too. Why, my own family does not even know I'm back."

Frizer wasn't a subtle man, Charles thought, for his glee was ill-concealed at Erik's words. Which would be why Erik had uttered them, he was sure. The revelation caused Charles a pang, for it may be that he was the only man in England who did know of Erik's return. But perhaps one of Erik's letters would yet yield some joy?

"It's a hard thing to be a stranger in a foreign land, but there is nothing quite like setting foot upon the soil of home once more, is there?" The lazy drawl of Poley sat at odds with his watchful eyes.

"When welcome is assured, there is nothing like it," Erik agreed. Did Charles imagine it or was there a flicker of a look to his hiding place at that? Charles found his heart beating fast as a rabbit, for even the slightest of suppositions that _he_ was who Erik considered home sent him giddy as a schoolboy. But then he was a ridiculous man and always would be where Erik Lehnsherr was concerned.

"It's particularly good of _you_ to meet me, Robert," Erik continued, "For a little bird told me that your packet is burning up with urgent dispatches to the Queen."

"Your little bird is too forward by far," said Poley, his drawl almost gone. Charles wanted to cheer. "There's nothing so urgent that I can't afford to share a drink with an old friend."

The two men were almost glaring now. There was a heavy feeling in the air, as before a lightning storm. The pewter tankards hanging above the fireplace rattled gently as though stirred in a faint breeze, the knife in Charles' belt tugging itself away from his side and towards Erik. There was a fine line of blue light that arced among the iron candlesticks in the wrought chandelier in front of Charles' eyes. He could only make a guess at what that signified or how dangerous it might be. Charles held his breath, in an agony of trepidation.

Erik's face twisted then, before seeming to give in, to smooth itself to a kind of amused resignation. "Well then. Here we all are. Friends together. Mistress Bull, if I could trouble you for a round of ale and perhaps some of your excellent beef, I would be much obliged."

The blue light sparking in the iron chandelier died away and Charles let loose the air held too long in his chest. It was clear that Erik was in trouble, that much was blindingly obvious. But Charles could only dither, because he had no idea at all what to do.

***

It was common knowledge that there were people in the world who were blessed or cursed with certain powers. The church's official view was still that you did not suffer a witch to live, regardless of the evidence, but witch-burning was much more likely to incinerate some poor fool born with gills or a tail than any kind of devil worshipper. However, progress was being made, in these enlightened days priests were more likely to harangue congregations about the perils of Popishness than the dangers posed by those people born a little differently. Besides, it was also common knowledge that such people were often... useful to the state. Who better to wage a secret war than gentlemen with bony knives hidden in their very skeletons, or the power to break both glass and eardrums with their scream? That still meant that those born with such powers went to extreme lengths to hide their malformations, lest a person's choices became severely limited, but it meant that at least there was a life to be lived. Charles had never asked Erik whether he had chosen the life, or the life had chosen him, not even when they were lying in bed together on a lazy afternoon, and Charles knew that their relationship was only one of many secrets. His revelation had instead been that if Erik asked him for any favour, anything at all, Charles would grant it. His comfort had been that Erik would never pry.

***

"A fine feast," said Poley, looking contented, if no less wary, "Mistress Bull has outdone herself. She and her staff could cook for her Majesty herself and not find themselves outmatched."

Erik grunted where he was laying upon the settle behind the rest of the company. His eyes were closed with a hand carelessly flung over his face but Charles didn't think that he was asleep.

Frizer picked up a piece of bread on the point of his knife and dipped it in the remaining juices. "A veritable banquet indeed. If this was the Last Supper itself there would be no comparison."

Charles had been standing in the lee of a pillar, trying to surreptitiously stretch to ensure his muscles would not cramp due to his stillness but he forgot all that as the tension in the room suddenly ratcheted sky high. Poley looked bullish, Skeres merely nervous. There was a kind of gloating glee on Frizer's face that was particularly ugly, it made Charles want to run and keep running until the only knives were trick ones and the only anger that thrown onto painted backdrops by skilful actors. But then his nerves settled at least a little because Erik was laughing, his eyes glittering behind his hand.

"And a fine Last Supper it was too, I congratulate you. There's many a man who's received worse and I'm flattered, really, that I should warrant three of you to attend to me. It's a true compliment."

Poley had his hand clamped on Frizer's arm. "Now let's not be hasty here. This has been a congenial afternoon, there's no reason why it should end in unpleasantness."

"Are you sure, Robert? Don't you think the charade has been going on long enough? I've never liked to beat about the bush with these things, not as much as you've been doing." Erik rose to sit on the bench. "What is it? Are you waiting for some signal - oh, is that it? You never were one for going against your masters. Is the word late in coming?"

"You always have to make things difficult, don't you, Lehnsherr?" Poley looked on the verge of losing his temper. "Why do you think we're here in the first place? You think you're so clever - the Dutch Church Libels were signed _Tamburlaine_ , by god. Do you think yourself so above us all? Do you think your position so unassailable? I can tell you now, it most certainly is not."

Erik was still, his expressive arrogant face arrested as he considered. "I didn't write those tracts - I had barely left Flushing when they were nailed to London's walls. Also, I hope that even Skeres here would know that I would never be so stupid as to _sign_ anything. For goodness' sake, Robert, you know me, we've worked together, do you really think so little of me?"

"It's hardly the point," said Poley, his face morphing curiously between regret and irritation, "You don't understand, it's so much bigger than that. Greater than your meeting with the Privy Council certainly, for all you think that will keep you out of the Tower. You can implicate important men, Erik, if you're truly arrested - certain people won't stand for that. And there's evidence against you."

Erik snorted, his disdain obvious. "If a pack of lies from toadies and lackeys aping their betters can be considered evidence. There isn't anything else."

But there must be something, Charles decided, because he could feel the metal of his buttons beginning to strain towards Erik, as though the man was trying drag Charles bodily into his arms. It reminded him of happier times, and so added a bittersweet edge to his panic. There was no blue light dancing in the metal yet, just a heavy ozone smell in the air, but it was only a matter of time, Charles saw that now. He was surprised at his calmness.

Poley had pity in his eyes. "Thomas Kyd was taken and put to the question more than a week ago - I think your old roommate's testimony will be more than enough to convict you, don't you?"

"What?" Erik's voice cracked into a shout, as though against his will. Charles allowed his eyes to close for one eternal second, bowing his head, thinking, Tom, oh poor dear Tom, forgive such men for they know not what they do.

When he looked upon the scene again things had changed once more, faster than Charles thought possible, Frizer was waving a knife at Erik, who had sprung to his feet - and if he hadn't have been so afraid it would have made Charles laugh. Really, who would try to murder Erik with a _knife_ if they knew what he could do? But the crackling blue light was limning all the metal fixtures again, and Poley had taken a step back, his eyes wide but obviously concentrating. Erik reached his hand forward to twist the knife away or take it to himself, Charles was certain, but winced as though coming in contact with something hot, as though sparks had spat at him from a burning log, breaking his control somehow. Perhaps, Charles thought despairingly, they knew exactly what Erik could do.

Skeres, quiet unassuming Skeres had pulled out a billy club, made of some hard wood it looked like, and he was maneuvering to get behind Erik and into his blind spot. But Charles had faith in Erik, the cutlery upon the table was shaking and the pewter mugs on the wall were banging about despite the blue light. Suddenly the mugs shot towards Erik's attackers, one after another, rather as though a person might pick up a hot pan, just for an instant to move it, and then let it go before any fingers are burned. One glanced off Skeres' skull and he shook it off much like a dog might before advancing again and taking a swing at the back of Erik's head. Another couple of tankards bounced off Frizer's doublet with a dull thunking noise, which even Charles was able to discern meant he had some kind of breastplate under the velvet, but a two pronged fork skittered off the table at a lower angle and caught him a blow in the meaty part of the thigh. It stuck there quivering but Frizer grunted at it, no more, as he pulled it free. His face was already caught in a snarl of anger as he fingered his blade before starting to slowly advance once more.

The next set of knives Erik threw missed in their entirety and Charles held back a blistering oath. He couldn't understand it, because Erik was better than this, he was a spy and an agent, he'd fought the Spanish at Cadiz, he'd been undercover more than once and seduced Catholics, anarchists and seditionists all to their doom. He was brilliant and ruthless and so very talented. It was impossible that Erik should lose this paltry scuffle, his story wasn't going to end in the back room of some dingy pothouse, Charles refused to believe that - he refused to even entertain the possibility. Finally Erik's small sword flew from his bedchamber, across the room and plunged solidly into his hand, but Erik made a pained sound as though merely holding it was agonising to him. And the fact remained that he was still fighting on three fronts at once, it wasn't fair or right. It also wasn't going to be enough.

If there was one thing that Charles Xavier truly despised, it was a bully. He had suffered enough torment of his own over the years at the hands of his stepfather and stepbrother, he couldn't tolerate such behaviour in others, particularly when it was directed at so very dear a friend. Perhaps only a situation as desperate as this could have made him crack, could have forced him to reveal that which he had spent so long hiding. Charles took in a breath, redolent with that sharp lightning smell and then exhaled; his breath, his despair, and his wards, all dissolving into the aether as though they'd never been.

Immediately, the scene took on a sharper edge, as the whisper of all those minds came flooding in to batter at his senses. There were the quiet frightened thoughts of Mistress Bull and her staff as they took refuge in the kitchen, and the background murmur of Deptford, merging like a combination of flavours on the tongue, both salt and sweet, with the bright flash of anger or joy leavening the whole. Then below him, clearer than any bell, the dull embers of the little minds before him, together with the towering storm cloud that was Erik's mental defences - and now Charles could see the problem. Of course he could, he could see everything now, he could see for miles. Skeres, that unobtrusive figure in the ongoing drama, that spear carrier, had more than a billy club to his name - he had some of the Psychic Arts at his disposal too, not a great deal and not wielded particularly skillfully, but it was enough to throw Erik off, enough to send his aim flying, or make his knives miss. He was not the equal of Mistress Frost, who commonly accompanied Erik to defeat this very purpose, but Mistress Frost wasn't _here_.

But Charles was. He had forgotten what it felt like, sensing the touch of other minds, he felt like a butterfly breaching its cocoon, all new minted, his wings unfurling in the sun. He had missed this, it was as though an amputated limb was regaining life and strength once more. He laughed because he couldn't help himself, just a small chuckle as he lifted his fingers to his forehead, the better to direct his Power. Poley registered him at last, his eyes widening in shock, but Charles wasn't worried about him now. He was more concerned with Frizer who was lunging forward with his knife held high, mere inches from plunging its blade into Erik's eye.

"Stop," said Charles then, his voice not raised or angry but merely polite, and as simply as that, Frizer did. His physical momentum was still carrying his body forward, but Erik stepped aside and caught the man before he toppled to the floor. There was a kind of silence, dull and ordinary, only filled with a muffled clatter from the street outside. The blue light was gone, Skeres was unmoving and Poley frozen. Charles smiled. If he had been forced into such a sacrifice at least he was pleased to know it wasn't in vain.

"Charles, my dear," said a soft voice, and Charles became aware that Erik was staring up at him with brilliant eyes, looking fiercely proud and admiring all at once. "I hesitate to ask anything further of you in such a moment but you may wish to start certain things again, for I know how tender are your sensibilities." His fingers were lingering on Frizer's neck. "I do believe you have stopped their hearts."

***

It was known as the Reckoning, much later, once the coroner had made his report and Lehnsherr's body had been hurried to an unmarked grave. His dramatic contemporaries gave eulogies once the dust had settled and it was safe to do so, all praising his theatrical triumphs, none mentioning his government service, save those who sought to profit from his enemies by throwing around wild accusations of atheism, Popishness and Greek love. It was said that he had been killed in a drunken tavern brawl arguing over the bill and many tutted at Erik's well remembered wildness and licentious ways. No-one accounted it unlikely, though many quietly grieved. Charles, as his chief mourner, might have been outraged on Erik's behalf but luckily he had wiser friends who counselled him to an appearance of calm. One friend in particular whose eyes danced with ironic glee as he read the pamphlets, and who may or may not have kept the most lurid to read out at the most inopportune times.

***

"I still count it a great shame that I was dispatched to my final resting place with such indecent haste," declared Erik one fine morning as they broke their fast with small beer. "I should have dearly liked to attend my own funeral."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Please, my friend, do not even jest about such an event. However flattering such praises would have been to your ears, did you really want to test my powers so soon, when I had left them untrained and fallow for so many years? I could not have held all their minds in thrall."

"I am not inclined to believe you, Charles, for you are most dreadfully modest for a playwright." Erik's eyes twinkled, before he reached across their shared table to grasp his hand. "I meant we could have found a coffin, I'm sure, and like enough a spare body too."

Charles tried not to shudder, but he was not sure that he succeeded. Erik tugged at his hand and Charles did not resist being drawn around to share Erik's bench. He did not let go of his hand either and Charles found his heart still leapt a little in gladness, even now. He looked around him at the rooms they now shared, marvelling that such things had come to pass.

"I am uncommon healthy for a corpse," said Erik, softly, as though he knew the dark turn of Charles' thoughts. And maybe he did, for Erik had ever known him well, and this man, this newly hatched creation knew him infinitely better. "I owe it all to you. Do not think I have forgot."

Charles shrugged. "My friend, I don't need your gratitude, for I am merely a selfish man. I did not want you to die."

It had been simpler by far than he had envisaged, to cloud the minds of Erik's enemies, to give them a new reality in which they had succeeded and to follow them to the house of William Danby, Coroner of the Queen's Household, who would now swear on his mother's life he had conducted an autopsy, heard the fellows' reports and sent the body for disposal.

It was considerably easier to think on that than to look sideways at Erik's fond hazel eyes boring into his, or contemplate the warm skin of his palm that still cradled Charles' hand. Erik leaned across the little space remaining between them and kissed the corner of Charles' mouth, his lips whisper soft, the touch of them like a promise. It was all Charles could do not to throw himself into Erik's lap in some misguided fit of overprotectiveness.

From such close proximity Erik's voice rumbled pleasantly in his ear. "I'm not going anywhere, Charles. Not any more."

Charles shivered. He was trying not to think about that. When Erik finally got bored of being stuck in one place, of being stuck with one man. When he went on his way at last - without Charles. He felt fingers on his cheek pulling his face gently round.

"I mean it," said Erik, "This has all been surprisingly liberating. There is no-one so free as a dead man, it seems to me." He chuckled, a surprised crack of laughter. "You have given me the greatest gift in the world. I don't just mean my life but my work too, my _real_ work. Do you know how many ideas for rhymes and plots and soliloquies I have had to let slip through my fingers, all for the lack of a little peace and quiet in which to write them down? I want my turn amazing the groundlings, my dear Charles. I want more than the pitiful handful of plays I have to my name. And if you will let me - if you will do me the greatest honour in the world... I want to write them with you."

Erik sounded so sincere, Charles thought longingly, as he stared at him, but then he was a good actor, as well as an elegant wordsmith. Charles wanted to believe him, he truly did - Erik was saying all the right things, all the pretty phrases that he'd longed to hear from him from their earliest associations. This close he could see the occasional thread of silver in Erik's dark locks, the fine lines by his eyes and the corner of his mouth, made that much deeper by care and worry on the many roads of Europe. Perhaps it was time for Erik to finally slow down, to come to a rest and gather some of that moss awhile. Perhaps he could risk his heart once more?

"I'm flattered, of course I am," Charles stammered out, all his skills failing him in the face of that even stare, so hopeful and yet so certain, all at once. Erik always had been so certain of Charles. "But I cannot be sure..."

Erik's face fell, his lashes falling like soft shadows against his cheeks as he looked down and away. Charles felt as though his heart was tearing in two, but surely it was better this way? Better now than in six months or a year when Charles would have had time to get used to Erik in his life, and the wrench when he left would be that much worse. Charles had never said no to Erik before, but perhaps this was the time to begin remedying that.

"No, I cannot let you, not this time," said Erik, "For I know that this is too important. We could be great together, you and I, and I won't let you run away from that." He squeezed Charles' hand tight, and Charles sat there helplessly in the face of Erik's determination. "You _will_ believe me, I will find... Ah, I know!" Sitting straighter, his demeanour back to its commanding best, Erik's eyes blazed. "You will read me, and then you will know the truth of things, will you not? You must unleash your Power just one more time, Charles, upon my inmost soul. For once, I want there to be no secrets between us, for I believe it may be the only evidence of your senses that you will truly believe."

Charles stared at Erik in disbelief. "Are you sure? It will be such an invasion, a violation of your very being. I can't..."

"You can and you shall." Erik smiled at him then, sweetly and with such trust in his eyes. "I do not believe it shall be as horrible as you say, for your Power is part of you, is it not? And how could I hate that which has saved me? How could I ever hate _you_ , Charles?"

It uncurled like a flower then, or an animal sweetly waking up from the winter cold, it was easier this time, for use must have made the bindings loosen that much more easily, like the worn straps of a saddle, and Charles felt the world around him with new eyes, in the pinpricks of warmth all about and the great golden blaze that was Erik's mind in front of him. No storm cloud of anger marred his thoughts today and Charles was able to slip into Erik's mind as delicately as a minnow, his restraint cool against Erik's crackling heat. Erik smiled wider and Charles knew he must have felt his presence, for all his care, but it didn't seem to matter because Charles suddenly felt a great hot rush of air, as though every door in a huge palace had been thrown wide open and all for him alone. Erik nodded encouragingly and with a swallow of his suddenly dry throat Charles took a delicate mental step forward, and then another.

Vistas opened up that brought tears of joy to his eyes. "Oh," said Charles Xavier, faintly, "Oh."

"Yes," said Erik Lehnsherr. For it really was as simple as that.

***

It was called the Great Flowering, that period of the Renaissance when all the arts and sciences experienced a huge surge of creativity. Astronomy, mathematics, poetry all flourished, and drama benefited too, theatrical productions growing far beyond their origins as great men's entertainments with new theatres for all the people being opened throughout London, at the Rose, the Curtain, and later the Globe. Great playwrights too were being born, and flourishing, their plays would be lauded for hundreds of years, among them the greatest names of all. Schoolchildren would have cause to curse their lifelong creative partnership, but for most people their words brought only inspiration, laughter and tears of both joy and pain. That most famous of all writing teams, the Bards of Avon and Canterbury, Charles Xavier and Max Eisenhardt.


End file.
